Friday, January 07, 2005

She bang.

I'm distressed. Sure, that's a normal state of being for me, but this time I'm really, honest to goodness disgruntled.

I was happy only a few short hours ago. There I was ripping open the gigantic box that contained my brand spanking new stereo Mr. Man very generously bought me. I was full of joy and hope for the future and one-hundred percent fully gruntled. In fact, I don't recall a time in recent memory of being as totally gruntled as I was at that moment.

Kids, this stereo is so cool. It has buttons and lights and boostie thingies and it shakes the floor underneath me. Mr. Man had to leave for work, so my son and I spent a good half hour doing nothing but attaching wires and pushing buttons. Sounds perfectly lovely, huh?

Yeah... not so much.

I found one of my favorite CD's and cranked up the volume. I knew I had it just right when the dog's hair blew backward. It was like AC/DC was right in the middle of my own little house.


I've said it before and I'll say it again. AC/DC is all powerful. If you are younger than forty, you'll no doubt want to tell me they're not cool any more... or whatever word you people are using to define cool now. If you are older than fifty, chances are you're sure listening to AC/DC will send me spiraling to the very pits of hell.

As is always the case, if you don't agree with me you are wrong. I'm sticking with "all powerful" and I'm betting any forty-something worth his or her salt would say the same. If not, they suck. And I mean that in the nicest way.

There is something about AC/DC that cannot be described. I just realized that as I am a writer, I am not allowed by law to ever say something can't be described. That's for you non-writer type people. I must describe. It's the nature of the beast.

First of all, you gotta love any grown man that has the cachongas (did I just create a new word?) to wear an Eddie Munster suit every single day of his life. Give him the same name as a brand of beef and you got something. Get yourself a band that does songs like "Highway to Hell" and "What Do You Do For Money Honey" and people are gonna notice. It's just good stuff.

So there I am, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" blasting away and without even realizing it I found myself doing what I always do when I hear AC/DC. I started to move. First it was just a little head bob. You know the kind. All the geeky wallflowers at the school dances used to do the little head bob. It's sort of the international symbol for "I'm a closet head-banger but I'm too shy to actually dance".

But as I said, AC/DC is the stuff and it's hard to stick with the little head bob when you hear "..pick up the phone, I'm always home, call me anytime.." In fact, it's been proven by actual lab-coat-wearing scientists that human beings are incapable of maintaining the little head bob when they hear AC/DC. I had no choice.

Next thing I know, through no will of my own, I'm in the middle of my living room fully engaged in what can only be described as full head banging activity. I'm flipping my forty-year-old hair around like I'm eighteen while simultaneously playing air drums better than any drummer, male or female, has ever played air drums in the history of the make believe instrument. I was transported. That's the power of the band.

And then it happened. The exact moment that I went from gruntled to dis in zero to sixty seconds. I never thought this day would come, but it did. I heard those three little words that every teenager swears their kids will never, ever say to them.

"You look stupid."

My ten-year-old son had the nerve to say to me the same thing I had once said to my Daddy when he wore black socks with his white tennis shoes and Bermuda shorts. How in the name of all that is good and right in the world could my son think of me, his way cool mom, the same way I thought of my dorky dressing father? Clearly he could use some time locked in his room writing, "My Mom is the coolest" no less than one-thousand times.

Somehow when I wasn't looking, I became the parent. Yuckie poo. Apparently no matter how hard you try not to be the stupid looking mom or dad, it happens in spite of you. Personally I don't know when it became stupid looking for a forty-year-old woman to blast AC/DC and dance around in front of her ten-year-old son like she's in the middle of a rock concert, but I......

Oh my gosh! I am a dork! I am the dorky parent. I'm the big ole embarrassing parental unit that my son feels compelled to explain to his friends. This is a sad day indeed.

Well, I don't recall Daddy giving up the black socks no matter how much I protested, so I don't think I'm going to give up Angus or head banging without a fight. Besides, I have a lot of practicing to do. If I'm going to enter the two of us in the elementary school talent show I've got to work extra hard on my new air drum routine. I think I'll play Wipe Out. When you've got this kind of talent, you can't let the protests of a ten-year-old keep you down.

He'll be fine. And even if he's not, we've got good insurance. It'll pay for all the therapy he needs.

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Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
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